


If You Dare To Second Guess

by ohyoudork



Series: Do You Know What's Worth Fighting For? [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyoudork/pseuds/ohyoudork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU in which Les Amis de l’ABC are university students who work at the Musain Grille restaurant.</p><p>---</p><p>“I believe in you, Grantaire,” Enjolras said. “And, if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make you believe in yourself, too.”</p><p>(Or the story of how Enjolras touched his hand and Grantaire nearly died.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Dare To Second Guess

“Grantaire, how is it possible that you still can’t make a decent Manhattan? Haven’t you been drinking since you were, like, 12?” Bahorel asked, making a face as he put down the glass.

“I can’t help it that, despite the fact that you think you’re some kind of Roman gladiator, you always order ridiculous cocktails instead of just a shot of tequila or a beer. Like a real man would,” Grantaire responded with a smirk. He gingerly picked up the drink in front of Bahorel and drank it in one, long gulp. “And this tastes fine to me.”

Feuilly snorted good-naturedly as he walked out from the kitchen, carefully balancing two trays with desserts. “Grantaire, have you ever met a drink that you didn’t like?” He continued walking slowly toward his customers without bothering to hear the answer, but Bahorel looked at Grantaire expectedly.

Grantaire raised his eyebrow as he set to work making another Manhattan. “Of course. You remember that time I had a Long Island Iced Tea?”

Before Bahorel could reply, a strong, clear voice replied from around the corner. “That’s not a real answer. You drank two of them so obviously the taste didn’t bother you. It was the fact that, once they kicked in, you decided to entertain us with a scene from your incomplete one-man play about the joys of growing up in middle-class New England. Right on top of this bar if my memory serves me correctly.”

Of course Enjolras would pick this moment to walk up to the bar, looking every bit as beautiful as he always did. Sometimes Grantaire was convinced that Enjolras knew exactly how much it pained him when he walked around with those rolled-up sleeves, his thin tie slightly undone and off center, and his golden hair disheveled from him constantly running his fingers through it. But naturally Grantaire knew Enjolras wasn’t doing it on purpose; if he were to ask the general manager what color his shirt was, he’d have to look down to answer.

“Thank you as always for your input, Enjy. I would give an encore because I know how much you all enjoyed that show, but as you can see, I’m working very hard to get this stupid drink correct for our favorite customer’s delicate palate,” Grantaire tore his eyes away from Enjolras and tried to focus on the alcohol in front of him instead of how he’d like to kiss away any trace of composure from that angelic, serious face.

Instead of continuing into the dining room like Grantaire expected him to, Enjolras walked closer and sat on the barstool next to Bahorel, putting his arms up on the counter, his light blue eyes staring at Grantaire steadily. Bahorel met Grantaire’s gaze, his mouth twisting into a wicked smile as he nodded toward Enjolras. Grantaire hated that he had ever confided in Eponine how much he admired the graceful way Enjolras moved because she had told Marius immediately, who in turn told Courfeyrac, and Courf told everyone from there. His stupid crush was a running joke between all of them that Grantaire didn’t find funny at all; why his friends took pleasure in his unrequited love was beyond him. The only silver lining was that Enjolras was always too preoccupied with work or school to notice the looks and nudges they all gave Grantaire whenever he was around.

Grantaire looked back down at the incomplete drink, determined to keep ignoring both Bahorel dramatically winking and Enjolras still staring at him. After a minute, Bahorel must have gotten bored (it didn’t take much) because he hopped down from the bar and headed toward the door, off to do whatever it was that he occupied himself with when he wasn’t sitting in the Musain Grille, chatting with Grantaire or looking for a fight.

“Bahorel, your drink!” Grantaire called helplessly after him, holding up the glass that only contained whiskey and a bit of vermouth at this point.

“Put it on my tab,” he replied back, waving to no one in particular as he picked up his peacoat from the rack near the door and stepped out into the winter chill.

“More for me,” Grantaire said with a nervous laugh. He downed the drink quickly, letting the alcohol sting his throat. Bahorel was right though - he couldn’t make cocktails if his life depended on it.

After he set the empty glass down, Grantaire looked out at the Musain, trying to avoid Enjolras’ eerily fixed gaze. He wished the bar were more crowded, so he could use customers to distract him. Yet, winter break had just started so most of the normal student customers were heading home for the holidays and, since it was nearly closing time, the restaurant was pretty bare. Jehan and Feuilly only had one table left each. Eponine had finished her tables half an hour ago and was refilling salt and pepper shakers in the far corner, her younger brother Gavroche next to her consolidating the ketchup bottles. Courfeyrac was at the host desk, involved in a low but heated conversation with his roommate Marius, who didn’t actually work at the restaurant but should considering how much time he spent there - they were probably discussing the owner’s daughter Cosette who Marius was obsessed with. Combeferre and Joly were still in the kitchen, most likely hoping that no more customers came in so they could continue cleaning up and get out at a decent time. Though Joly was never satisfied with the state of the kitchen, always going on about all the germs crawling everywhere, so he’d be cleaning late no matter what.

Grantaire desperately attempted to get his friends’ attentions, trying to send some kind of ESP message for them to rescue him from Enjolras’ unblinking gaze. He couldn’t tell if Enjolras was waiting for him to speak or trying to figure out what he wanted to say; or maybe he was just thinking and staring at what happened to be in front of him. Enjolras would often get so consumed in his thoughts that he’d completely zone out, ignoring everything around him, including one time where he almost walked into the street in front of moving traffic and had to be pulled back onto the curb by Combeferre.

But this wasn’t Enjolras zoning out - he was focusing on Grantaire, his mouth a straight line, neither smiling nor frowning. And to say it was unnerving would be a vast understatement; it was like a Greek god in some masterpiece painting focusing its eyes on you and you alone, and you couldn’t escape. Grantaire didn’t care about much and not many things rattled him, but having Enjolras’ undivided attention was making his stomach feel funny. Like he was on one of those stupid pirate ship rides at a carnival, going back and forth as it tried to mimic the sea.

“Is there something I can help you with, boss?” he finally said, grabbing a rag from under the counter to start wiping the bar just for something to keep his hands busy.

Enjolras sighed heavily and then bit his bottom lip, a tick he always did when he was working up to something. “Have you thought any more about what I said to you this afternoon?”

Grantaire felt the heat rush to his face. Of course he had thought about this afternoon, but more about what Enjolras had done than what he had said. As soon as Grantaire had entered the Musain for his shift, Enjolras had grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him against the wall in the lobby, his forearm across Grantaire’s chest. It had taken his breath away not because it was overly forceful but because Enjolras had never touched him like that in all their months of friendship, if you could even call it that. It was also the first time Grantaire had seen Enjolras lose his cool even marginally; he could stay calm faced with the nastiest customers or when their liquor distributor Montparnasse (who was terrifying and likely involved in the mob or something) tried to scam them out of what they were owed. This afternoon though, he had looked a bit crazed, his bright eyes wide, his cheeks flushed. It was only a minute and a few quiet words before Courfeyrac had coughed purposely, and Enjolras left with a frustrated sigh. Grantaire had been speechless which, in turn, was rare for him.

“Well, have you? Thought about it?” Enjolras prodded, forcing Grantaire to focus back on the present.

“Thought about what?”

“Great,” Grantaire thought as Combeferre emerged from the kitchen, with Joly right behind him. An audience was exactly what he didn’t want now. Where were they five minutes ago when he needed saving?

“Have you told no one, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, his voice suddenly softer and gentler than before. It made Grantaire’s heart ache.

“Told us what?” Jehan said, coming up next to the bar with Feuilly, their last customers putting on their coats to leave.

Grantaire looked at the floor below him and wondered if there was some kind of alchemy that would let solid vinyl tile evaporate straight into gas and let him fall into the earth. Anything would be preferable to the gazes now fixed on him. And the number of eyes was growing by the second as Courfeyrac, Marius, and Eponine joined the group standing in front of the bar - Joly’s roommate Bossuet had also appeared from nowhere, and then little Gavroche hopped up on the barstool next to Enjolras right in front of Grantaire, and it was too much.

“I’m entirely too sober for this,” he muttered to himself, reaching for his gin and tonic that he kept under the ledge of the bar. He took a long swill, hoping that maybe if he just kept drinking, the faces would all disappear. But when he put the empty glass down, they were still there, most of them staring at him - Combeferre, always observant, was looking back and forth between him and Enjolras.

“Come off it, Grantaire, what’s going on?” Eponine finally said, putting her hands on her hips.

Grantaire simply looked down though. He couldn’t say it. And Enjolras must have sensed it, even though Grantaire had never known him to be in tune to the subconscious emotions of others, especially not his.

“Our dear friend Grantaire here has dropped out of college,” Enjolras said with obvious disappointment. Hearing him say it directly instead of the hushed “You fool, what have you done?” that Grantaire had gotten this afternoon was even worse than he had imagined.

“Are you ill?” Joly immediately asked, bouncing on his heels. Bossuet put his hand on Joly’s shoulder fondly.

“Are you mad?” Jehan asked at the same time.

“What the hell?” Courfeyrac nearly yelled.

Grantaire threw his hands into the air. “I don’t know, OK? I don’t know. I just figured it was time.”

“Time to give up? Throw away your future?” Eponine said, her lovely face etched with sadness.

Grantaire leaned forward and cradled his head in his hands. This was the opposite of what he wanted. He knew his friends would find out eventually - this wasn’t a secret to keep forever. But he had hoped to have some more time, to have figured out a good way to explain it and created some kind of plan for the future. But no, Enjolras just had to stick his perfectly sculpted nose into his business. And for the first time ever, too. Why couldn’t he have kept Grantaire at arm’s distance like he’d been doing for the past six months?

He felt a hand petting the top of his head, and he looked up to see Gavroche frowning at him. He had even disappointed an 11-year-old. That was a new low.

“Grantaire, we’re your friends. We just want to understand,” Combeferre said, slowly untying the apron from around his waist. “Have you been having problems? Are your grades bad? Is something else happening? Let us help.”

Grantaire licked his lips nervously. He didn’t think they’d understand even if he were able to articulate what was going on in his head. Not with how dedicated they all were to their studies and their dreams. They had clear paths set out for themselves and what they wanted to accomplish - from Enjolras who was so passionate that he had to create his own major to fully encompass everything he wanted to do, to Combeferre who knew from the age of 5 that he was going to be a history teacher, to romantic Jehan who threw himself so completely into his poetry that he couldn’t help but be brilliant at it. Grantaire didn’t know how to tell them that he wasn’t the same. And he couldn’t even say the words with all of them staring at him, wondering what he did to fuck it up this time.

“Grantaire the screw-up.”

“You aren’t a screw-up,” Enjolras said gently.

Grantaire hadn’t realized he’d said that outloud. And he hadn’t realized it was possible for Enjolras to be any more beautiful than he already was - but this whole “concerned” thing was wildly attractive, and that just compounded everything. Apparently his legs finally had enough of standing and slowly gave out beneath him, causing him to slide down behind the bar, away from the stares. He pulled his knees up to his chest and tried to concentrate on his breathing. He probably shouldn’t have finished that gin and tonic; he felt the edges of his vision getting fuzzy and his cheeks were tingling. He had no problem holding his liquor, but when his emotions were already running high, it usually ended badly. Like sitting on the floor behind the bar with all of your friends probably looking at each other, confused.

“Why don’t you all head home? I’ll finish closing up and stay with him, OK?”

Why would Enjolras volunteer to babysit him? None of this made any sense in regard to Grantaire’s experiences with the stoic young man. In fact, Enjolras made it perfectly clear every day since Grantaire had started work at the restaurant that he didn’t approve of Grantaire’s entire demeanor. He didn’t like how much Grantaire drank and that he drank with customers; he was constantly telling Grantaire to stop flirting with every person who approached the bar. He didn’t like that Grantaire had never taken his studies seriously; he lectured him frequently on how a college education was necessary in today’s world and how it wasn’t something to take lightly. Until today, the most physical interaction they ever had was when Enjolras got so frustrated with him that he’d slap Grantaire upside his head. 

“I haven’t finished scrubbing the kitchen though --” Joly started.

“Jolllly,” Grantaire heard Bossuet say playfully, “I’m sure the kitchen can go without a thorough cleaning for one night.”

“But you don’t understand. We cook back there. We prepare food that people eat --”

“Generally that is what happens in a kitchen,” Courf joked.

There was a brief silence and then Grantaire heard Eponine clear her throat. “Let’s go, guys. I have to get Gavroche home, but then we can go grab a drink somewhere, yeah?”

There were some grumbles and shuffling feet, and Grantaire heard the sound of the front door being opened and everyone filing out. A minute went by and there was only silence. Grantaire was beginning to think he’d been left alone, but when he raised his head, he saw Enjolras coming around the side of the bar - his Apollo shining brightly against the dim fluorescent light.

“May I?” he asked, pointing down to the floor.

Grantaire didn’t know what that meant, but he nodded anyway and was shocked to watch Enjolras - gorgeous, composed Enjolras - slink down onto the dirty floor. He wrenched his tie away from his neck, looping it over his head and then clutching it in his lap. He was so beautiful that Grantaire wanted to reach out and touch him, just to see if he was really there, unsure of whether he had drank more than he’d originally thought and was now hallucinating.

“Please tell me what happened,” Enjolras said, bringing his knees to his chest to mimic how Grantaire was sitting.

Grantaire sighed. “It’s not... it’s not that something happened really. It’s not one thing at least. It’s just... I can’t explain it. This is just what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. Nothing ever stays. I don’t stay. I’m used to it. What I’m not used to is people caring, especially you.” He paused. “Why do you care?”

Seemingly full of surprises today, Enjolras leaned forward and placed his hand on Grantaire’s knee. A few stray curls fell onto his forehead, and Grantaire had to press his hands in between his thighs to keep from gently tucking them back. He felt like a goddamn teenage girl, ready to melt from a single touch from the boy he idolized.

“Do you know why I agreed to let you start working here?” Enjolras asked.

“Because I’m amazing with liquor, and your last bartender was an unreliable twat?” Grantaire laughed nervously, his eyes focused on Enjolras’ hand that was still resting on his knee. He was pretty sure if it stayed there much longer, he was going to burst into flames.

Enjolras sighed and said, “He was a very poor worker, and you do know your alcohol very intimately. But no, the reason I decided to hire you was because of what I saw at Courfeyrac’s party at the end of last term.”

Grantaire cocked his head to the side, finally lifting his gaze to meet Enjolras’ eyes. Those piercing eyes that could be so cold and calculating were staring at him, now wide and earnest. Enjolras removed his hand from Grantaire’s knee, gone as suddenly as it had appeared, and crossed his arms across his chest.

“I-I barely remember that night,” Grantaire said, while thinking that the image of Enjolras sitting uncomfortably at the kitchen counter at Marius and Courf’s apartment, a pencil in his mouth and his school papers spread out in front of him while a party raged around him, was permanently sewn into Grantaire’s memory. Grantaire didn’t know why he had been attempting to do work at his friends’ house while people drank and danced around him, especially since the semester was over. But he had fallen instantly for that boy so focused and oblivious; he hadn’t realized Enjolras even knew he was there that night.

“That’s precisely my point. You were incredibly intoxicated - even for you, which I’ve come to understand since seeing you in many states of obliteration - but yet, you were completely entangled in an in-depth discussion about the merits of Keats’ poetry with a group of people I didn’t know. You were making your points with such articulation, such logic, despite the fact that you could barely walk.” Enjolras paused, closing his eyes as if remembering that night. “That was my first impression of you: sharp-witted and sharp-tongued.”

Grantaire swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. Listening to the object of his affections talk about him in such an admirable way was more than he could have ever thought possible. He watched Enjolras breathe, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and felt his own chest get tight. If Enjolras didn’t get to the point soon, Grantaire was going to do something stupid like kiss him and ruin everything.

“Here’s a better question: Why did you decide to come in and ask for the bartending job?” Enjolras asked, opening his eyes and biting his lip again.

Grantaire immediately replied with an attempt at a smirk, “Because I needed something to do. You know, idle hands and all.”

“No,” Enjolras said, shaking his head. “It was because you knew the restaurant and your friends needed your help.”

Grantaire thought to himself, “It was because I knew you needed my help.”

Enjolras put his arms at his sides, his palms pressed down against the tile. If he were standing, he’d be an imposing force - the muscles in his arms tight, his veins visible under his pale skin. Grantaire could barely breathe.

“You say you’re happy to live your life drunk, floating through experiences, not sticking to anything or anyone. But I know that’s wrong. And I think you know it’s wrong, too. I’ve seen what you’re made of, and I know you’re worth more than you know - more than anyone has probably ever told you. You throwing your life away is simply not an option. I won’t allow it.”

Grantaire’s heart was beating so fast that it felt like he was having a heart attack; maybe he did and this was heaven or something. He didn’t buy into a “heaven,” but if it were real, this is what it would be - his angel mere inches from him, close enough to touch, and saying that he cared, in so many words. Grantaire knew Enjolras wasn’t some divine being, but this was by far the most human he had ever acted in Grantaire’s presence, and he was happily speechless.

Enjolras continued, apparently unaware of the profound effect his words were having. “I believe in you, Grantaire. And, if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make you believe in yourself, too.”

He leaned forward, shifting his weight onto his knees, and placed his hands over Grantaire’s, which were still squished in between his thighs. Grantaire’s breath hitched unconsciously; Enjolras’ face was hovering closer and closer to his, and Grantaire was literally frozen. Finally Enjolras was close enough that Grantaire could see the way his long eyelashes curled slightly at the ends and the pale stream of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and he was positive he was going to die. It wasn’t natural to have your heart beating this fast, the sound echoing in your ears. 

Enjolras raised his head just slightly, his chin resting against the space between Grantaire’s eyes, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. His lips were only there for a second, maybe two, before he pulled back, sitting on his heels. His hands were still resting on top of Grantaire’s though. For his part, Grantaire finally remembered to breathe, which came out more like a gasp. He blinked rapidly a few times, as if still expecting to wake from a dream or a drunken stupor. Yet, Enjolras was still in front of him, still looking at him for an answer. His cheeks were flushed, the red traveling down the side of his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

He looked more beautiful than he ever had - more beautiful than the first moment Grantaire had seen him, more beautiful than when he stood in the middle of their civics lecture and argued with the professor, more beautiful than he had appeared just earlier tonight. And Grantaire realized there was only one thing to say that wouldn’t disappoint his Apollo and negate everything that had just passed between them.

“OK, Enjy, you win. I’ll go back to school. For you,” Grantaire said, hoping his voice sounded more steady than it did in his head.

“No, I want you to do it for you,” Enjolras replied, putting his weight on Grantaire’s knees temporarily and then standing up slowly. He extended a hand down to Grantaire.

“Fine, for me,” he replied, grasping Enjolras’ hand tightly as he got to his feet. Yet, he thought to himself, “Because that’s what you want.”

On level footing again, Grantaire found himself nearly nose to nose with Enjolras, who hadn’t let go of his hand yet.

“Good because the reason I found out about it in the first place - which I’m surprised you didn’t ask about this afternoon - was my friend in the admissions office who recognized your name and called me. Your paperwork is sitting on my desk at home; it never went through the system, so you’re still a student,” Enjolras smiled, a rare, full, nearly blinding smile.

And Grantaire couldn’t hold it in anymore. He surged forward and kissed Enjolras hard, his lips tingling with the contact. Enjolras was clearly surprised as the grip he had on Grantaire’s hand tightened, but nothing was more surprising than him kissing back. Grantaire felt his stomach drop to his toes and then rise back up again; he tentatively raised his unoccupied hand to cup Enjolras’ face, feeling the slight scratch of stumble beneath his fingertips. Grantaire ran his tongue along Enjolras’ bottom lip and bit it softly like he’d watched his Apollo do so many times. Enjolras chuckled softly, and Grantaire could feel his grin.

Although it had only been a few seconds, Grantaire pulled back, completely breathless and instantly sober. He opened his eyes to see Enjolras practically beaming, his lips red and glossy.

“But I don’t --” Grantaire started.

Enjolras interrupted, “I knew if I pushed you enough, you’d see. See everything.”

Grantaire leaned forward again, pressing his forehead against Enjolras’ and bringing his hand up to bury it in those soft, golden curls.

“How long?” Grantaire asked, not even really caring about the answer because this was really happening right now.

Enjolras stood up straight and snaked his arm around Grantaire’s waist, settling on the small of his back. “I told you - since the first time I saw you. I just didn’t know... how to say it... what to say.”

“I made you speechless?” Grantaire couldn’t help himself.

Enjolras brought both of his hands up to Grantaire’s face, causing him to nearly swoon. “You are quite honestly the most frustrating person I have ever met, do you know that?”

Grantaire just leaned forward and kissed him again, wanting to get lost in his angel’s lips - truly heaven must feel like this.

“Are you two going to stand there making out all night or are we going to go get drunk?”

Both Grantaire and Enjolras jumped back suddenly, turning to stare at Courfeyrac standing in the lobby of the restaurant, an irrepressible grin on his face.

“Holy hell, Courf, how long have you --” Grantaire started but was interrupted by all of their friends banging on the glass outside of the Musain, all with equally dumb smiles.

“Oh my god,” Grantaire mumbled, feeling the fiercest blush creeping across his face. He stole a glance over at Enjolras, who looked similarly shocked but was still smiling and looked miles more composed than Grantaire felt.

Jehan stuck his head inside the restaurant, his cheeks red from the cold, and said, “Are they coming or what?” Courfeyrac shrugged and made a going-or-staying gesture to the pair.

For maybe the first time in his life, Grantaire found that he didn’t want to get drunk - in this moment, he didn’t need to. He was about to answer as such, but then Enjolras took his hand, intertwining their fingers, and said, “We’re in.”

And Grantaire realized that as long as Enjolras would have him, he’d follow his Apollo anywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Title is from "Last Night on Earth" by Green Day. (The series title is from "21 Guns.")  
> \- This is the first fic I'm posting on AO3 and the first I've written in the Les Mis fandom. Many thanks to my lovely Sam who served as both beta and inspiration. :)


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